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how to claim your birthrightshe moved constantly & never unpacked the boxes, like she'd fly away any second & watch the city unfold underneath like a lit-up bruise, with all its looping strands of streetlamps & cockeyed rivers & highways dangling jauntily from the face of the earth.
she spun a symphony beneath her, hung a spindly bridge across the womb harbouring all the world's cigars & half its barren fish.
you could send her a package & never be sure that it would reach her. she never left by plane because it meant she couldn't change her destination midflight & she listened exclusively to bob dylan & sundance film soundtracks. she sent christmas cards in march unapologetically because she believed in proving things & no one knows when jesus was born. she moved constantly & counted on everyone else to stay put so she could show up unannounced at their door at three am with blueberry muffins.
or so she said
she also once seduced a chinese god (or his son) who proposed to her in mandarin with a fortu
unknitting the ars poeticai am acceptably
“interesting,” a vegetarian, & i “drink”
nyquil because i am “nocturnal” according
to my mother & the “paediatrician”
i refuse to see anymore. my family
is a collection of “individuals” all with their own
“unique” opinions & voices that stomp
along the ceiling.
i have determined
the “meaning” of meaning & i will argue
with your “poems” & make you “uncomfortable” because
isn’t that the “point” of poetry anyway? we generally
hijack debate questions from fox “news” because
my uncle thinks jesus has enough time to
care about “politics.”
i’m a “girl”
standing with “other” girls
& i’m a girl in a “dress” & i look
like “alice” & we all
look like “seals” in barefeet on
black black “rocks.”
hey seattle slew,baby girl or boy,
i never planned on you.
i am seventeen years old and i want to adopt children because i'm afraid of bringing you into this world, i'm afraid that you will end up like me and i'm afraid that you won't. i might have named you elías. i might have named you nothing at all and let you choose.
i am seventeen years old and terrified, for you, for me. i hope you will have the chance to do the things i never did before now: read every last one of tolkien's books, bake a giant cookie cake, whelp a howling dog in your basement or backyard, tell a stranger your complicated and unadulterated feelings or thoughts on a whim, eat a whole jar of nutella in one sitting, turn an entire wall into a chalkboard or whiteboard for doodling when you can't sleep, stay awake for forty-eight hours, travel to another country to help disaster victims rebuild their lives. i hope you will be so much more than me; i hope you will have the best parts of me and i hope you will have some of the wor
whoever isn't youcould have made you a mixtape but i curled up on the toilet seat in my brother's brown sweater and chewed my swollen lower lip so the cut wouldn't heal. watched the pieces of my hair fray in the corner on cold tile like a nest for ants or roaches.
it's the kind of day where i screw the crackers and eat nutella straight from the jar.
epiphany #019: pulling out your hair is never as poetic as it sounds
mercy no mercymy mother sings lord have mercy. she wears
glasses, she believes, she has moles on her neck
& none of them shaped like jesus. she cooks
red beans & rice for the potluck, she glares
at me when i'm not singing. i fake it until she turns
her eyes back up to the cross. i fake it for
a while, for her. my mother sings lord, she stands
up a little straighter, lord have mercy. while
everyone else is praying i imagine she cries
like i sometimes see her doing. i can't ask
for mercy, i don't deserve it. & then she holds
my hand, rubs my back, i hope she can't feel
the bones there the way i think she might. she says
nothing, squeezing my hand, gathering the tears
with her thumb. lord have mercy. she leans
into me, that woman's husband passed recently.
she always puts it that way. when she stops
forgiving me the world will end. if there isn't mercy
for her i have no hope. when she believes
in me & i keep breaking her heart a little at a time
i know i don't deserve it but she keeps
on anyway. univer
from carousels, from glassyou are a romantic thing much like tapeworms.
the inside of your mouth edged with photographs, a dust jacket. when you laid on my bed i felt something
solid, the very small sound of tapping your foot, i became tangible but only
for a second. this is you on fire.
this is what you would be on fire,
an electric-hopeful kind of time bomb, there that is my bedspread with the
blood on, there that is my belief in
this world and you are trampling it. and dragons also, they touch you without and i
allow myself to be unglamourous, it's this part i know so well. you touch me
and i begin to spit up spider legs in your sink.
epiphany #472: the cookies you gave me are stale and misshapen but they still have the sprinkles on and i keep them in my nightstand drawer
the future is for gypsieswe are all twenty three point five degrees shy
of even, a people off-kilter and invariably prodigal, timid
as our buffalo. you have a hometown, i say out loud
while driving in it, and you murmur something about murder,
the dusky war over your head. you say those birds don't
even know about the obliquity of the ecliptic, and here
they are, trying to change it with all their weight in the sky.
twenty three point five, you repeat, your mouth around it
gingerly as a psalm, as a lioness with cubs, and we keep driving.
there are sights: a stripped-wire cherry tree, its fragile arms tipped
with ravens, their children unstrung and clinging to
the window screen. people here grow thin and taut as their
nerves, hysterical with sedentary fear. we've stayed too long,
grown roots, become as player pianos too comfortable in
our tilt. twenty three point five makes echoes in the canyon
of your mouth, awake with heavy birds, bloody with desire
for symmetry. we pass our house and we keep driving.
if you need a place to stayone kayak & a lake
full of clouds, or stars, or reeds
that tickle your feet when
you dive in.
one kayak & a voice
that fills the lake, catches
the corners of a room, raises from the dead
old debates, while in the basement reigns
the sound of bare
feet & concrete, the unshelving
of teenage doubts, a thin wash of
smoke we shut outside. &
life jackets litter
the floor, faded
out of the shape
of bodies, & the west wall
shelves cluster with
coffins labelled in vavo’s
handwriting (the only thing
he gave to me besides
a love of
solitude & card games) – quarter
inch screws, masking tape,
miscellany (my love of
words too). &
a television set that
shouldn’t work, the way
bees shouldn’t fly but it does
& they do. then
we tracked damp footprints
indoors in spite of our mothers, shook ourselves
dry like dogs, began experimenting
with our half-selves. now
we creep down-cellar
& whisper to each other: i am afraid,
i am a fountain of self-loathing, i have been
where you go when you die.in every story, there is a plot. this is called what happens. what happens is usually someone dies and someone rebuilds, someone buys a wedding ring and she eventually says yes. what happens is we lose touch. what happens is we stop at the laundromat, and i dont know if i am inventing the men smoking cigars on the porch, or if it is really thursday. what happens is i am nine and you are a few years older and we are in the laundromat with three baskets full of clothes.
what happens is my parents are waiting in the car and we have quarters weighing down our pockets and we are grown up as we press coins into the slots on the washing machines. we giggle because we are the youngest occupants of the store, its one large room lined with washers and dryers, and we giggle and we wait for the buzzers. we grow unsteady, confused, younger as we realise that the dryer does not live up to its name.
ambiguous addictions& there was a night
ran me a bath. and he said
if he put in
he stay in the
room. he watched me
in the mirror. he
was changing the
we were alone
that night. the house
cinematic lighting &
and he told me
that he liked
my smile. and my
but nothing else about
it would take five
months, & a few
for him to say that
he always loved;
that he lived
i inhabit new
skin. and smoke
longer joints. but
bathroom, he explored
my makeup case.
he put on my mascara.
and stole my
lipstick. if you kiss
me you get it
he said. and i
he imitated my
inflections. & took
i had a thousand
out of body
he asked to join
me in the
bath. like knights.
i refused him. a night
he put his
hand in the water. and
he threatened to
pull me off. i could rape
he said, covered in
he gave me a towel, later,
it's raining in our hearts.four months ago, the weather was warm but the sky was dark except for little glowing drops of light that sliced through the darkness and pounded on your cracked windshield. the wipers were screaming back and forth cutting the comfortable silence we sunk into. your knuckles were white on the steering wheel as if the bones were begging to get out and i swear, i could hear your heart beating from my seat eighteen inches away. your eyes kept straying from the road to my face as i stared decidedly out the window watching the storm build and calm in the reflection of my eyes as the sky poured color infused water droplets on us. i wanted to pretend like this wasnt the most beautiful thing id ever seen since that would never count for anything. i wanted to pretend like this wasnt perfect since that tends to be so short-lived. but it was beautiful and perfect as you parted your lips and let your heart sing. it was raining outside when you said you loved me.
a week a
I wish I like Tarantino Moreyou never saw my jackson
pollock or the rubber duck in
we never showered together. or sat
in my room
listening to bob dylan or simon &
garfunkel in central park
live; or the silences
that frost up my windows. we could
have spent months
in the silent noises of night. they make
you are always handsome.
we had moments in space. cosmonauts drinking
bourbon. these golden days
as lightfooted adventurer. you made my mascara run. and
i believed in god
i still dream about you most nights. dressed in
red or in my imaginary bath robe. and
i can smell you sometimes on
my clothes. in my hair. my skin
absorbs you like
you have seen a lot of my body. and heard
i wish you had seen me watching
television. and running late for
school. every morning.
I wish we had been mundane together.
cask wineon thursday we were in love
now; and you won't
here is my box, in my
i'm a whore, perhaps. just
a model with a
there. i'm a feather.
it is a new season.
a new war, but i'm
not a virgin
martyr in your
no esctasy. no rapture.
a silken glove.
if i was
cask wine would you
it is saturday. a new
one. full of blood
my hair is blonder. & i'm
fur. i'm hating myself
and kilojoules. maybe
i'm fat or too
maybe we were
reprinted lily ponds. restructured
that mean nothing.
not rembrandt after all.
on murray streeti am rehearsing (you & i in my
me without my peroxide tips or
panties. and you trying to
seduce me over
it is tonight. somehow.
it could have been a wrathful moan.
or a dylan verse.
we are another side. that was our
album. we had more than
we had our own vengeful alphabet.
and we invented our own
and both refused to paint, at least
our own company.
and we might have meant it when
there could have been genuine
shivers along your
and we never fucked.
and we never made love.
and we never shagged.
and we barely kissed.
and you were scared of my breasts,
and the way i could
glide rooms and shyly
anyone i chose.
you could only last two minutes with
me, you said when you laid your
quietly on my chest.
we could have loved
each other, one day
if i was taller or thinner. and you less
of a prick.
and i'm rehearsing tonight. my breaths.
the arch of my
the way i hold my beautiful
wrists in your
too much britpop "too much britpop"
we are disconnected telephones or piano
solos. we are both irregular french verbs. we are dope.
we could lie on each other consensually in conditions
of dry & wet. we should never be
I want to spend months of afternoons
you; I want to be pretentious in your company
drinking soy lattes & discussing proust or wittgenstein. you hate
most of my friends, but that's fine because I do too.
I want to catch buses with you. And trains. I want to
catch trams, trains buses, taxis & never feel
you remind me of noel gallagher.
the part of me that listens to Britpop with no irony tells me I might
love you. maybe. you have the perfect height for heartbreaking.
being without you is like inhaling without
I can live without you I just don't want to.
the boy with milky way eyeswhen it comes to love,
giving out is giving in;
it's a brush through tangled hair,
bombshell lungs built to burst,
and a carpal tunnel piano lesson.
your touch sends daggers
into the electric folds of my nerves.
everyone was right
when they told me that the skin on me
would love the razor in you.
starlight, star bright.
your eyes are so voluminous and vibrant
that maybe one day when they fall
i can make a wish.
caught me staring, you did,
"can you see my soul?"
i did not break my telescopic gaze;
i simply told you, "no.
no, i see galaxies."
puzzled, you turned off the night sky
in your eyes
and fell into slumber.
i wonder if you can see
the milky way projected upon your eyelids,
or if they are just blood red
like everyone else's.
i wonder if, like her mouth,
she keeps her eyes open
when she kisses you,
to see the light in your eyes
burn holes through their thin skin cover.
on certain nights,
i find myself carelessly
fingernails.She used to chew her fingernails.
she digs craters in her arms,
and mars her skin with scars.
I used to tease her about digging for her golden heart, and barreling through her veins in mining carts.
I realize shes digging for all her insecurities.
I watch her as her lips move in silent repetition,
My name is Angel.
My name is Angel.
My name is-
and her fingernails line her shoulder blades in red. She smiles like innocence and makes me wonder if the fists pounding against cushioned walls and the eyes filled with nothing but white spaces are really angels screaming for home.
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
the numerology of foodit's not myth. i once
no, many times interrupted
myself & spit it out: pegasus
flesh, dinosaur chicken nuggets,
rice & beans, into my cup while
my parents discussed acupuncture,
the housing market, family
members who only call
when they need
i heard her last night.
you can tell how she's feeling
by the way she walks
today, dragging her less-than-self through hellos, words
that say nothing
at all, androgynous frame making lines
on the day, a series of negatives
superimposed on air: the dying horse
in motion. maybe
you don't think
give fifty for one fourth cup
of pinto beans, one hundred for a half cup of brown
rice, maybe thirty five
for nine baby carrots maybe
easy give eighty for
an apple, depending on size. the numbers
there was a sound & it was
of coughing & it was a piece
of something that i
recognised. she walked out
of the bathroom & down
the hallway & i believed her & i ate
all of it
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More